Being Brothers
by clair beaubien
Summary: Missing Scene to Point of No Return, Sam is NOT happy when Cas brings Dean back unconscious. Told from Cas' POV.


Missing Scene to Point of No Return

* * *

Sam Winchester is a compelling mix of confidence and humility.

From the stammering awe he presented at our first meeting, to the awesome power he used to dispatch Alistair, to his enraged dismissal of me when I couldn't heal Dean afterwards, Sam has been a complicated man to interact with. Much more complicated than Dean.

Dean has one action – _action_. He has one _reaction_ – stubbornness.

Sam is thoughtful and considerate. Every - _almost_ every - action of his is tempered with compassion and concern for the other person. Even if the _other person_ is someone he will never meet in this life.

Even in the waning throes of his recent detoxification, when he was barely able to sit up by himself, he maintained a certain courtesy with me. It wasn't due to my being an angel; I knew he would've been as polite with anyone taking care of him. When Dean wasn't at hand to be solicited for help, any request put to me was prefaced with '_I'm sorry,_' and punctuated with '_Please_.' Each fulfillment of a request was rewarded with '_Thank you' _and more often than not another '_I'm sorry._' And unless Dean _was_ at hand, Sam usually delayed his requests - for water, for painkillers, for blankets, for help achieving a fresh position on the cot, even just for some quiet companionship - until he was long past agony. Just to avoid what I knew he felt would be a burden to me, despite any protestation from me to the contrary.

Even during what was unquestionably a distressing, agonizing, humiliating experience for him, he was quiet, patient, thoughtful, and appreciative.

And then I brought Dean back to Bobby's house much the worse for wear after experiencing my anger and my fists, and I encountered a Sam Winchester of whom I had previously only experienced fleeting glimpses.

Once the preliminaries were dispensed with – _what happened, where did I find him, had he had the chance to contact Zachariah?_ – Sam approached Dean and gave him a thorough and practiced assessment, checking no doubt for hidden blood and broken bones. When nothing apparently was too untoward, he drew Dean to his feet with an arm around his shoulders.

"_Put us in the panic room." _

As I moved forward to do as he requested, he added,

"_**You too."**_

The steel in his voice and the resolute gaze with which he fixed me told me that this was _not_ a request. No 'please' would be forthcoming. And the only 'sorry' which would be acceptable would be _mine._

In a moment, we were all three inside the confines of Bobby's panic room. In _another_ moment, Dean was safely situated on the cot and I was against the wall, with Sam using one hand to press me forcefully back against the steel, and using the other hand to point a warning dangerously close to my eyes.

And then the man himself, Sam Winchester, leaned down and in, closer to me, as close as possible, even his _aura_ commanding all and more of the minute allowance of moving and breathing room I had.

"If you _**ever**_ touch my brother again, _I-will-rip-your-wings-off._"

In the ensuing pause, I contemplated the folly of his threat. Sam might have possessed the physical and psychic ability to obliterate any and all malevolent foes, but I was an Angel of the Lord. He could do me no harm. He had to know that.

Then Dean murmured a sound that might've been a moan and that hand pinning me to the wall curled around my shoulder in a grip that was actually painful and I was suddenly aware of the waning status of my angelic strength and the power within Sam. _Not_ the malignant and awful power that rendered him capable of dispatching Famine and reducing Alistair to ash, but the power that came from being the sole protector of the only thing left of value in his life.

_Dean._

I had harmed Dean and that would not stand.

"_Do-you-understand-me?"_

Sam's eyes were fire and his voice had dropped to a menacing undertone. I had harmed Dean and if it happened again, there would be no rest for either of us, Sam or myself, until he had exacted his revenge. If there was a way, he would find it. If there wasn't a way, he would create it. And nothing, not heaven, not hell, not God Himself would stop him.

"_Yes. I understand."_

There was another brief, painful, pause before I was released and Sam turned back to his brother, rolling his sleeves up as he did so.

"_I need hot water, towels, clean clothes for Dean."_ He barked more orders at me. There was no _please_, there would be no _thank you._ I would furnish these items as completely and as quickly as possible or I would be rendered - perhaps _physically_, perhaps _metaphorically_, but definitely _immutably_ - nonexistent.

I placed myself back upstairs to find my task already half completed by Bobby who handed me clothing, towels, and a large, covered pitcher of hot water.

"Glad he didn't kill you." He said. "Or I'da had an awful time getting this stuff down those stairs."

"You knew Sam would react this way?" I asked.

"You touched _his brother._ I'm surprised it took him that long to let you have it. And not even with both barrels. You're lucky he likes you."

This statement filled me with surprise. Sam had verbally lashed me, physically accosted me, shoved me against the wall, threatened to mutilate my mystical person, and then saw fit to order me about. This was to be considered _liking_ me?

I admit, the look I turned to Bobby clearly expressed my doubts of his assessment.

"_Imagine if he __**didn't**__ like you."_ He said.

That thought was enough to send chills down even _my_ spine.

I brought my supplies down to Sam and paused momentarily to watch him care for his brother. Dean had been about to say 'yes' – was actually _saying_ yes to Michael when I found him; he had expressed surety that Sam would say 'yes' to Lucifer; he had been obdurate, infuriatingly quarrelsome, self-indulgent, and to speak in the vernacular, more than a little bit _whiny_.

Yet, Sam was tending to him carefully, gently, maintaining a flow of murmured conversation to his semi-rousing brother, relating an event totally unconnected to the present moment, and only making reference to his ministrations and the reasons behind them when necessary.

Dean had been an ass – Sam was being _a brother._

I found myself wishing that any of my brothers cared as much for me.

The end.


End file.
